


Louvre Palace, 6 April 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [26]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Correspondence, Embedded Images, Etiquette, Exes, F/F, Forgiveness, Formalities, Franco-Spanish War, Gender Roles, Imagination, Kissing, Moving On, Nostalgia, Social Mores, Some Historical Fudging, War, Wartime, posturing, recovery from bullying, social climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: Constance stands, hands on her hips. The rooms she’d struggled to lay claim to for all that first, lonely time now seem too large again, and echo uncomfortably. In truth, she’s not lived here for weeks, maybe months – they’ve merely been a place to hold changes of clothes and somewhere to sleep. The very quiet that had seemed balm and comfort now seems incomplete, constrained, an itch across her skin.Still, these walls hold memories, the very furniture bearing the weight of secrets shared and love affirmed, sometimes in the strangest and most unexpected of ways.*Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	1. Summons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text of the embedded images is in the end notes.

Constance stands, hand on one hip, mouth tucked to one side. She looks up at the servant. He gazes back at her, the picture of well-trained blankness. She sighs, quirks an eyebrow. “You know what I could do with?” she says.

“No, Madame?”

“A book of words – what they mean.”

“French words, Madame?”

“Yes. But, since nothing like that exists, as far as I know, I’ll make do with you.” She flicks her eyes down to the letter, returns to him. “What does ‘acquiescence’ mean? I know its general thrust, but what’s the proper meaning?”

The servant, who has had a modest pamphlet of verse published rather recently, screws up his face in thought. “‘Reluctant acceptance’,” he says in the end.

“As if to a duty?”

“Er, yes.”

“Right.” Her face sharpens to something like determination, and something like humour, and he realises, all of a rush, that he’s going to miss her, this strange woman who’s quite unlike any servant or courtier in this place. Every thought or feeling she has dashes across her face except when she’s decided to school someone. The blanker her face, in his experience, the harder they’re going to be schooled.

“Well, monsieur, I appear to have packed most of my writing materials, so needs must, wouldn’t you say?”

“Madame,” he inclines his head, and is very glad not to be Madame de Motteville.

She flips the missive over, fishes what turns out to be a pencil from her pocket and leans on the nearest blank surface, face shifting in concentration as she composes.

He receives in return:

“Well?”

“I think,” he says, as neutrally as he dares and rolling the paper into a neat scroll, “that will do very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she says, with the tiniest of smirks and what looks to be the ghost of a wink. She presents a red ribbon: “Here,” and he holds the scroll steady while she ties it, wrapped around three times and pressed into a neat bow.

She pats it gently, he retreats on a small courtesy, and leaves.

Constance stands, hands on her hips. The rooms she’d struggled to lay claim to for all that first, lonely time now seem too large again, and echo uncomfortably. In truth, she’s not lived here for weeks, maybe months – they’ve merely been a place to hold changes of clothes and somewhere to sleep. The very quiet that had seemed balm and comfort now seems incomplete, constrained, an itch across her skin.

Still, these walls hold memories, the very furniture bearing the weight of secrets shared and love affirmed, sometimes in the strangest and most unexpected of ways.

She has written her last letter at _this_ desk; anything further addressed to her here will have to be forwarded. She trails her fingertips over its surface and turns to survey other parts of the room.

Reconciled, and, later, shriven by confession, she and d’Artagnan had stood _there_ , fierce and heated, words and emotions flying and falling, seeing each other more truly, loving each other more deeply, more courageously.

_There_ , at that table, two unfinished games of chess with Athos, each one a means to connect calmly, each giving way to tactics and strategies mapped across their bodies, learning new ways to be.

_That_ broad chair, holding so much straining, heated, desperate emotion in its forgiving lap.

Then, cheeks heating and not minding in the least, she sways into the bedroom, to take her leave of _there_ , stripped slowly and sumptuously by the pair of them; _there_ , d’Artagnan taking his mouth to her, both of them exhausted and exalted by a long day of peril and farewell and reconciliation; _there_ , her taking him inside her for the first time; _there_ , Athos showing her, casually, how words can bind their young lover, the thrill of power arcing through her in a way she had barely articulated to herself at the time. And _there_ d’Artagnan summoning stuttered narration from Athos, and _there_ they join inside her, and oh, _there_ … sharing their most intimate act with her.

She lets the heat of remembrance crest in her, holding it for a deliberately indulgent moment, then releases it, blowing her fringe off her warm face. Rolling her eyes and smirking fondly at her own wilful foolishness, she begins a far more pragmatic sweep for any tiny thing that may have escaped her attention.

The cupboards are swept clear, as is the space under the bed, and every drawer is accounted for. And still she circles, opening, closing, bidding it all farewell, consigning it to history, to the hands of whoever comes next into this place, to it merely being part of The Palace.

She comes, finally, back to the reception room, and opens the door to summon someone to bring a porter for the last of the boxes. She realises, slightly to her surprise, that she has already decided that she won’t be returning here after speaking to the Queen.

It seems fitting, somehow; a circle turned full. A little theatrical, but no matter of that.

Constance has never sat well with time on her hands, so, after seeing to the stowing of the boxes on their transport, makes her way towards the Queen’s quarters. She climbs up via the kitchens, nodding and smiling and pressing the occasional hand or arm or kiss to those who are bidding her farewell. Nanette and Simone rush over to thank her for the dresses and shawls. Tiny Simone will have to have hers taken in somewhat, but she’s still thrilled. Constance feels a stab of something, something about how much she’s taken her resources while here, and clothes in general for a long time, for granted, but now isn’t the time for that, it’s the time for hugs and smiles and nods to demands to visit sometime soon, and to taste a little of what will be going up for lunch shortly and to offer praise and sincere tokens of how much she will miss everyone here.

And, in this moment, that’s both true and not. What she is heading to will be difficult and different, but truly, her foot has been on this path for a long time now, and she will likely be far too busy for much in the way of nostalgia.

She ascends, shifts her expression to something a little more neutral, but can’t quite get her gait back to matching that which patters in muted echoes off the walls, pale and constrained. The whisper of well-trained footsteps in the corridors around her seems painfully narrow and frankly unnatural.

Constance no longer seems quite able to hobble her stride. She is walking, she thinks, more like a countrywoman than a courtier. But she still nods and bobs as appropriate to those she passes

At the door to the Queen’s quarters she pauses for a moment, smoothes down her gown, pats and tucks her hair, breathes deep, and knocks.

The door is opened by a trim, brunette woman whose sloe-dark eyes always seem hooded in judgement of the subject on which they lay their gaze. Constance has known her long enough to know that this expression is partly an affected courtly disdain, but also partly just the slightly unfortunate shape of her eyes. She allows herself a demure smile and courtesy, which is returned on a murmured _Madame_. She casts a look up the corridor on reflex as the lady-in-waiting pulls the door wider open, spotting the Breton guard, Erwan, strolling towards them on his round. She has a soft spot for him, so offers up a twinkle, which is circumspectly returned. As she enters the antechamber, she receives an correcting kind of look from the dark-eyed woman.

“You are early, Madame,” says the lady-in-waiting, admonishment at the display of something so indecorous as a _twinkle_ still ringing through her.

“It’s a vice of mine,” she returns, unabashed, looking up and around the curlicued cornices and rich hangings of this room with a melancholy kind of pleasure as the other takes herself away to stand in the middle of the dim space, facing Constance, hands and mouth folded modestly in front of her, feet neatly together.

As she returns her gaze to her, it comes as a small but welcome shock to realise that Madame de Motteville no longer intimidates her, and that she hasn’t for quite some time. She smiles at little sharply at the other woman, begins to understand something of the way that Treville moves around the Palace, his absolute calm when facing down the machinations and insinuations of the court-bred around him. It’s hard to be intimidated by these delicate creatures.

She feels her smile broaden, irrepressible, while her eyes stay a little narrow, watches a mote of understanding penetrate the until-now unshakeable glacier of Madame’s regard. No doubt it is a little unwise for her to push the reality of this switch of attitudes at her with another, rather sharper twinkle and a swaying half-step towards the statuesque… wait, that’s not right, either. She is sizing her up in the way she has been learning to for a while – not just for her social influence now, but her physical presence. Which is significantly less impressive than it used to appear to her. Maybe Constance is holding herself taller these days. Or maybe she’s woken up a little further.

And it’s heady, this feeling. She squares off her shoulders a little, stands with her feet hip-width apart, weight forward a little on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped _behind_ her back, gazing a little over Madame de Motteville’s shoulder, eyebrow quirked, and the woman gives her a look mingled of distaste and disquiet. Then Constance hears, clear as anything, in the back of her head, almost, as it were, in her ear, Athos murmuring that she’s showing off like the rawest recruit, swaggering and sneering, revealing the very vulnerability she thinks she’s beyond. Porthos mutters that she’s as good as swinging her dick around, and d’Artagnan just smiles, telling her with one look that she’s enough in herself. With his hand at her waist, and Athos’s on her shoulder, she unwinds herself and smiles directly at Madame de Motteville: a soft, disarming, brilliant thing worthy of Aramis himself, and the other woman, charmed against her own volition, startles herself with a returning smile of her own. Constance thinks it may be the first real one she’s seen on her, in truth. She also sees, finally, that Mme de Motteville is nowhere near as rigid as she has always thought her, not a minor monument in the model of Madame de Beauvilliers at all.

We see each other clearly at last, she thinks, in a loop, head cocked slightly to one side, smile fading slowly as Madame de Motteville’s does, and now Constance is remembering that she wears black as the widow of a man near four times her age, her union a political expediency written on a greater tableau than Constance’s own, but enough alike that they should know each other better than this, they truly should.

And Constance sees how hard she’s been battling, the whole time here, and how much she’s missed out on in the way of potential friendship if she’d only thought to look deeper.

Damn.

Constance does not forget, as such, but decides to put aside the fact that Madame de Motteville was among the foremost in the sly campaign of pausing before her old name: _Madame… Bonacieux_ , a reminder that she was not “de” anything. How slender an advantage they must have felt after all, she thinks, wondering, if that’s what they went with.

She feels a momentary irritation, because this means that Athos was right. Damn it.

The other woman is looking confused, no doubt at the long silence combined with the flashes of emotion crossing her as she thinks her way through all this. She takes a deep breath. “Madame de Motteville.” The other nods, cautiously. She smiles warmly at her, decides to reject all the clever twists of phrase she’d started to prepare. “It’s wonderful to know that Her Majesty will be in such safe hands as yours,” she remembers something else, of her mother, Madame Bertaut, former lady-in-waiting to the Queen, “once again.” Another nod, somewhat warmer. “It’s a shame that I wasn’t able… that I didn’t take more time to properly hand everything over to you.” She catches and holds her gaze firmly, earnestly. “I think I would have enjoyed that. Enjoyed getting to know you better.”

And Madame de Motteville looks… shaken. Gently, ever so gently, but shaken. And Constance has not only got to enjoy shedding the restrictions of… what was that word? _circumlocutious_ diction at last, as she bids farewell to court life once and for all, but also to see her frankness thaw a chunk off the unassailable Mme de M., who is – yes – actually smiling back at Constance.

_Better late than never._

Hah.

“Madame d’Artagnan,” and Madame de Motteville takes an involuntary, abortive little step-and-reach-out towards her and she closes the distance for her, both hands out, palms up.

“Constance, please.”

“Constance.” She lays her hands on hers, a little hesitantly. “Thank you. It is… It is an honour to serve Her Majesty, of course, but…” she looks down, and Constance still isn’t quite sure how much of this coyness is manufactured, but it doesn’t matter so very much after all, does it? She looks up again. “I have large shoes to fill… You are. She–”

Constance ducks into her eyeline, smirking. “You’ll do very well, I think.”

“She speaks of you a great deal,” says Madame de Motteville.

“And no doubt you’ll be heartily sick of my name soon enough.” She grins, to show it’s a joke. They’re still on too shaky ground for her to try the kind of deadpan that she and Athos enjoy.

Madame de Motteville colours, and Constance sees, again more clearly than before, quite how young, tucked behind all those airs, she truly is, but she smiles back through her mild mortification.

“I just hope you enjoy hard work, is all,” she adds.

“Oh, indeed,” she replies. “It is the only thing, sometimes, when your spirits are low.”

Married to a man in his dotage and far from your family. No wonder. And she, well, not so much curses, but _scowls_ at the Cardinal’s unlamented memory. Oh well. Young Françoise Bertaut, lettered to the point of studious, no real beauty, of a minor family, might never have made much of a name for herself. But, exiled with her mother to excise the Queen’s Spanish connections from her, enduringly loyal, safely widowed, and returned at the Queen’s behest, now to her right hand, might well be a power to reckon with, truly.

So many fires to temper us, she thinks, and who knows which blow will shatter us and which give us strength?

She shakes off her thoughts as the far doors open and the Queen sails towards her, hands outstretched. She releases the other woman with a quick flick of her eyebrows and a brief moue of amusement, turning with her to dip a low courtesy.

“No need for this,” tinkles the Queen, glowing under a more elaborate confection of hair than Constance has yet seen on her, and she rises to meet her perfumed embrace.

“Françoise.”

“Your Majesty?” Madame de Motteville remains low.

“I would have a moment or two alone with Constance, before she leaves us entirely for her new duties.”

“Of course,” she murmurs, turns smoothly out of her courtesy, and sweeps away to the outer corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Some Historical Notes
> 
> [](http://www.artnet.fr/artistes/nicolas-de-largilli%C3%A8re/portrait-of-fran%C3%A7oise-bertaut-de-motteville-y5OB5Ej2TEmVqm4MbuxEpw2)   
> 
> 
> [Françoise Bertaut de Motteville](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran%C3%A7oise_Bertaut_de_Motteville) was a real, historical character and a major reason why we know as much as we do about Queen Anne, due to her writings on court life. As with [de Cinq-Mars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16103771), the King’s companion, I feel forced by the BBC’s exigencies to reintroduce her to court somewhat earlier than in reality. Or, in other words: I blame Doctor Who for the liberties I’ve taken with history.
> 
> (Incidentally, she is known for this quote: "The true way to render ourselves happy is to love our work and find in it our pleasure.")
> 
> Re: Constance’s statement that nothing like a book of French words and what they mean exists, my slightly scanty research indicates that, while other languages were busy making such things for the previous few centuries in some cases, French lagged behind not only them but many of its near neighbours. Constance won’t get her dictionary for a couple more decades or so.
> 
> Oh, and that scrawled A is from a cleaned-up, stripped-down version of the [original Anne’s own signature](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_of_Austria#/media/File:Signature_of_Anne_of_Austria,_Queen_mother_of_France_in_1641.png), because if you can, why not? ☺
> 
> ### Letter Texts
> 
> #### Text of Anne’s note to Constance:
> 
> To: Madame d’Artagnan
> 
> Dear Madame,
> 
> Her Majesty requests the honour of your presence in her rooms at midday. Please indicate by prompt return of message your acquiescence to this invitation.
> 
> Yours in all faith,  
>  **A**  
>  Anne, Queen of France  
> by the hand of Françoise Bertaut de Motteville


	2. Dismissal

They regard each other in silence for a moment, then, eyes lighting, she says: “Dearest Constance.”

She nods, much as she would to Athos. “Your Majesty.”

“And no need of that, either.” She waves them towards the window seat.

She smirks a little as they sit, close and slanted towards each other. “We’re alone?”

“As alone as I ever can be. The Dauphin is with his Governess.” A flicker of smile that’s almost more flinch than caress – her mistress mired in mixed emotions again.

She makes sure to let her face soften. “I have missed him. He’s been getting big without me.” She has seen him, sometimes, at a distance, pudgy hand wavering, determinedly walking, rocking like a duck on dry land where he could be carried everywhere, presumably. Constance approves of a Governess who will encourage the boy to follow his own path.

That expression, so familiar, that sweeps over her in unguarded moments thinking of him: delight, awe, and something verging on panic, is there on Anne’s face, then gone again, and Constance’s heart clenches.

They gaze at each other for a long moment. “I will miss you, Anne,” she says, very simply.

“And I you. You will come and see me.” It hovers between a question and a statement, her brows creased in a way to remind Constance that this is not an order, it’s not.

She frowns. “Of course!”

Anne brightens. “Wonderful. You will have a great deal to tell me.”

It’s subtle. Constance has had little time to tell her of her discoveries so far – how much she’s learned, how well she enjoys to teach. Ninon was right – there’s nothing like the shaping of minds.

Which reminds her: “I received word from Madame de Larroque a while back…”

Anne’s eyes widen a touch, and her face grows a little still. “Yes?”

“Yes. She seemed remarkably well-informed.”

“It was always her way.” There’s definitely some amusement there.

“Mmh. She saw fit to send me a gift.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A very beautiful item that she said had given her much joy and comfort in times past that she wished to pass on to me with my… source of comfort somewhat beyond my reach these days.” She looks Anne dead in the eye and says, to be sure: “She thought it would _please me_.”

“Oh?” A pause. “ _Ah_. How… generous.”

“I came to find it so.”

The sound that Anne makes is faint. Somewhere between a small cough and a smaller gulp. “I see,” she says, but a twinkle that would no doubt _scandalise_ Madame de Motteville is visible, and Constance is willing to bet that her colour is mounting, just a little, allows herself the indulgence of imagining the warmth starting low, spreading, how that would feel on her fingertips, against her lips, not quite touching – just _basking_.

And then her own heat rises sharply as Anne says: “Maybe we could arrange some time in the future for me to witness this… _gift_.”

Danger thuds through her, and their eyes lock. Constance has been allowing herself to remember various things, faintly, as if through gauze, but now her inner vision hardens abruptly. Cautiously, she says: “With all my remaining belongings now at the garrison, I… wonder if…”

“Oh,” says Anne, airily, “There’s no rush. I’m sure we’ll come up with something, should the need arise.”

“Right,” she says, a little faintly. This farewell has taken a knight’s move away from how she’d anticipated it going.

But hasn’t that always been the way since she came to her side? Anne is composed of so much more than anyone sees, and full half of that is steel. And much of all of it is a perilous kind of love for others and for life, buried beneath yards of duty. Plenty of fools see her as cold, and weak, and trembling, but Constance knows, she thinks, fiercely, sees her as someone walking the sharpest of lines, teetering minutely between duties, subsuming her own joy in the service of her country, and with it some of her grace.

Constance dwells, greedily, for a moment, on all the times she shared some of that joy, grace, heat, and some of that must rise into her face, because Anne’s focus sharpens, and her gaze is falling to her mouth, and Constance can’t, she mustn’t. She reaches out and presses Anne’s hand between hers, tries to let that grip speak for her, when, right now, she daren’t open her mouth, just daren’t.

Anne’s look is fierce, her grip tight, a straining tension twisting through her for a long, long moment, the air singing between them, and then it clears, and she smiles, her fingers relaxing, and Constance feels strangely grateful – there’s no other word for it – but later, well… it will take her a couple of days to fully untangle everything that has passed in that room.

“Tell me,” says Anne, gently, and Constance feels her begin to let her go, “what will your duties be at the garrison?”

She smiles back, reined a hair’s breadth from something like weeping, and begins to talk of what the time to come will mean. It’s something like caretaker, and something like administrator, and something like an aunt.

“And are you really learning swordcraft?” Anne sounds delighted.

Constance feels a pleased, embarrassed smile creep sideways on her. “I knew the basics before,” she says, “d’Artagnan saw to that. But I’m being pushed further now. Fabron –” she hesitates, one brow coming down into a lopsided frown that, if she could see it, would remind her very much of her husband. She starts again. “Fabron – the swordmaster – he doesn’t care that I’m a woman, any more than he cares that some of these young lads have never so much as lifted a sword before, and that some of them are very minor lordlings, while others have left crafts, and others the gutter to train with us.” She smiles, eyes sliding distant. “He says he prefers those who know nothing to those who’ve bad habits to unlearn.”

Anne must surely know some of this – she can’t imagine that she hasn’t made herself aware, where Constance has been so remiss in filling the blanks of late – but her face is alive with interest. “Truly?” she murmurs, and Constance remembers her learning to swagger that one hot night in a young man’s clothes, borrowed sword at her hip, breasts bound flat, the picture she made then, and several other times… that she’s sworn not to think of “André” any more, not if she wants to keep avoiding treason, that is.

“I hope,” Anne goes on, “you’ll come back and tell me more, after you’ve fully settled in, of course.”

“Of course.”

There is a rustle and the sound of a small, elaborate clock striking the half-hour. They’re still locked in each other’s eyes, and she can’t remember when that started, but she hears Anne’s breath go in and she says: “Constance, may I…?” and this crack in her composure is undoing something in Constance and she’s nodding even as Anne says: “I mean, I’d like… to say goodbye, that is. A– Please?”

She feels her own brows crease up in the middle, and then she’s nodding again, and leaning, only ever so slightly, just in case she’s misunderstood, but Anne’s expression is lightening, and leaning, and their lips brush, soft as leaf fall, and warm, and sweet, and too much, and not enough, and she feels her hand jerk, longing to hook at the back of Anne’s neck, pull her to her, deepen this to how it used to be, but–

But Madame de Motteville, the guards, the time. And it’s been years since she’s been kissed, oh Hell – _years_ , and that’s why…

And.

And they pull back, softly, and Constance can’t help but buss noses with her briefly as they part, summoning a very beautiful smile, one that – she’s sure – very few have seen, and Anne’s fingers ghost along her hairline, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear, and then they’re sat, decorous, composed, two women passing the time amicably, eyes very soft and bright, hands still clasped.

Madame de Motteville enters, as she’s bid, after her knock, glides across the floor in a way Constance knows she herself never quite mastered, even at the height of her courtliness, offers her sincerest apologies and the reminder that Her Majesty is due to lunch with the Bishop.

“Of course.” They rise together. “Thank you, Françoise. We shall be there directly.” She smiles at Constance again. “Thank you, Constance, for everything.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Majesty. Truly.”

A happy crinkle of her public smile, with something else tucked inside. “I hope to see you soon.” A breath. “Farewell, Constance.”

“Farewell, Your Majesty.” She nods. She can barely move, her heart too full.

But duty unwinds its clockwork; she and Madame de Motteville offer each other slow courtesies, and then the Queen and her new confidante leave the room, and she follows after.

As she leaves the Palace her stride lengthens, and she sheds weight with each step, eyes set to the next chapter of her life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your patience, you lot. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, and it knocked my writing right on the head. Back in the game now (I think), so expect more of these in the coming days.
> 
> Oh, and to the person who likes to wander along and have a go at me when I write Anne/Constance fic: please find a better hobby. Ta.


End file.
